A First Encounter (K)
by InsertImaginativeNameHere
Summary: Sam Axe hates spies. So how exactly does he become friends with Michael Westen? Just an interesting (and slightly amusing) scene I thought I should write.
1. Sam

Today was not a good day.

They'd run out of beer three days ago and since then, Sam had been waiting for something to happen. Three days. No beer. Still nothing. Oh – and there was the fact they were in the middle of some Eastern European country he couldn't pronounce the name of, if they were caught, they'd be shot on sight, and at some point, the CIA would be barging in and messing everything up.

Sam, as a rule, was patriotic, very much so, hence his presence on this mission, but God he hated those pompous a-holes. Sure, they did good things, didn't they, for the country, and their intel was essential for Sam's job, however, did they have to be such irritating, pretentious, stupid sons-of-bitches? Was having their head stuck so far up their ass they could see daylight a requirement? Did they only recruit obnoxious jerks? Also, why couldn't they bring more beer? How they expected a man to survive _without_ a six-pack by his side was beyond Sam. Then again, spies could survive on nothing but goat meat and yoghurt for months on end. They couldn't be expected to understand the hardships normal people went through.

And, when it came down to it, Sam sure would be glad to have a well-trained operative helping them out. Just as long as it wasn't Larry Sizemore – son-of-a-bitch if ever there was one.

It was just about getting light outside, and it was filtering in through the small, high-up window, not that they could go outside right now, given that people who went outside could be prone to spontaneous combustion. The clock on the wall said it was five, but Sam didn't really trust foreign clocks, given that they didn't really show the proper time. True, the early morning wasn't the best time for alcohol, but, Sam reasoned, it was evening back home, therefore, he was living properly in the right order. He had explained this to his CO, when asking for more beer, and had received a recommendation to visit a psychiatrist.

Unable to sleep, and bemoaning the lack of beer, Sam took a shower – which, of course, was cold, because they didn't seem to have heating over here – and got dressed, into his uniform. Despite the laid-back attitude he gave off, he _was_ a good soldier. He adjusted his belt, examined himself in the mirror, practising his trademark charming smile. He'd go and ask his CO about the beer situation again. Knocking on the officer's door, he prepared another speech about the urgency of his request. Three days without beer was entirely too many. What was the excuse he'd been given again? 'Taxpayer dollars', that was it. Apparently buying beer on a secret mission thing was _not_ a good use of it.

The boss answered, tiredly, rolling his eyes when he saw Sam. Before any such speech could be started, however, the CO cut him off.

"Axe. Just the person who I wanted to see."

That surprised Sam. Generally, the only people who were happy to see him were women, and they were only happy the first few times. Any later encounters tended to be homicidal, thus avoided at all costs on Sam's part.

"You've reconsidered on the beer, sir?" Sam asked, hopefully, even though as he said it, he knew full well it was not the case.

There was a muffled laugh from inside the office, and the CO glared at Sam. "This is a serious matter. You're an important part of this mission, and we need you to work directly with the CIA on it."

Sam groaned internally. He knew this would happen. Typical. The sons-of-bitches wanted him to play get-along, and okay, he'd do it for his country, but that didn't mean he wouldn't protest along the way.

"With all due respect sir," He said, the traditional response of anyone about to say something disrespectful as hell, as he stepped into the office. "I hate spies. They're a bunch of bitchy little girls."

"I couldn't agree more." Came an unfamiliar voice. Sam glanced around the office and spotted the speaker. He was a young man, early twenties, perhaps, with dark hair and a smile full of perfect teeth. The fact that he was wearing a suit, and was sat on a chair in front of the CO's desk, casually rotating it just a little, told Sam this was the spy he was going to be working with. That and the teeth of course. Seriously, how did spies do it? Did they have some super-secret special dental plan?

The CO relaxed slightly, and the spy, who had to be new – too young to be an experienced operative – stood up.

"Sam Axe, Michael Westen." The two shook hands, and Sam tried his hardest to stop himself making some other tactless comment in front of his boss.

He examined the spy. The guy was taller than Sam, not excessively so, but enough to count. He was...what was the word now? Lithe? Not stocky, but lean and clearly strong. There was a scar by his left eye. Even though he lied to people for a living, his smile seemed genuine and he didn't look like he was going to be annoying.

"Sorry about-" Sam began, but Michael waved it off.

"It's fine. I completely understand where you are coming from. Have you met Larry Sizemore?"

Laughing, Sam took a seat opposite his CO. Michael also resumed his seat, once again spinning his chair that little bit.

"You know Larry?" Sam asked, eventually, slightly concerned. Larry was a good operative, but he had an evil streak that ran deeper than the Marijuana Trench or whatever it was called, and this guy was obviously new, so he was easily influenced. A bad influence like Larry bred more psychopaths like himself, like a pathogen infecting the young spy community.

Michael stopped spinning, and looked at Sam "Worked with him a few times. Glad to get away, to be honest."

Michael Westen immediately went up in Sam's estimation. Maybe working with him wouldn't be so bad.

"We need to talk about the mission." the CO began.

"It's five in the morning, I've been on a dark plane all night, there was a lot of turbulence, and I have to deal with my stuff." Michael gestured at his bags. "If we could discuss this latter, that would be perfect."

The CO sighed. "Fine. Be back here by nine. You too, Axe."

Sam saluted and left the office, followed by the spy. Part of him was glad he had found a way out of the boring meeting, but the other knew he had nothing to do for four hours and would have to sit through the meeting anyway. And there was still no-

"Fancy a beer?"

Sam's face lit up as he decided to put aside his hatred for spies just this once.

"You have beer?" He asked, innocently, and Michael opened one of the bags to reveal a six-pack. Sam slapped the guy on the back. "Wow, Mikey, you are officially my new favourite person."

'Mikey' grinned. "I thought you hated spies."

Sam shrugged, taking the six-pack and kissing it dramatically. "I'll make an exception for anyone who comes bearing beer. Have you got anything else in there I should know about?"

"Just some goat meat and yoghurt."

That made Sam laugh even more. Spies.

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"Don't-" The spy shook his head. "Don't call me Mikey."

"How about Mike?" Sam asked, secretly vowing to call him Mikey as often as he could without being noticed. He would even whisper the 'e' sound if he had to.

"That's better." 'Mike' responded. He did not seem put off talking to Sam, but then again, he was a spy. Telling lies for money was sort of his job. Either he was a really good spy, or a genuinely nice guy. Or, and Sam knew this would be asking too much of the world, both. Larry had probably taught him a few tricks, not nice ones, but useful nonetheless. And anyone working for the CIA at that age had to have some natural talent. A lot of talent. Experience would come later.

"Okay Mikey." Sam laughed. Michael gave him a look, which just caused Sam to laugh even more. Soon, he joined in. "You know, I'm actually looking forward to working with you."

"That's good to hear. For what it's worth, I hope if this goes well, we can work together again."

That sounded like a good idea. It really did. Sure, he was a spy and all, but he seemed a decent guy and Sam rather liked him. God knows spies needed all the friends they could get. Besides – somebody had to undo whatever that maniac Larry had done.

They went for that beer and Sam asked Michael about himself. Spies were never overly forthcoming with details, however, they got talking anyway. It turned out he was from Miami, had been in the army since he was seventeen, and he didn't seem to want to go home. Probably had pretty good reasons for it. Well-adjusted people did not become spies. Well-adjusted people went to college, became doctors, lawyers, dentists, and the dentists then catered to the spies' perfect teeth. Those well-adjusted people would never be here, drinking beer in Eastern Europe. They would serve their country in their own little way, but they could never experience this.

Today, it seemed, was a good day.


	2. Michael

**A/N: I never intended there to be a part two for this. But there is. And it's from Mike's perspective. Same scene, different POV. It's more of a writing exercise than anything else, practicing writing Michael Westen, but I'm working on it. If I do write for this fandom again, I hope you enjoy it. This is more of a minor irrelevancy than anything else. Ik I'm selling myself short but whatever.**

Today was not a good day.

He'd been on a dark plane from the States since yesterday morning, missing a whole day and barely getting any sleep and now he was expected to listen to and take in every word this CO, who frankly had a stick up us ass, said; all because he was CIA; he had to get the job done no matter how annoying he found his assets. Fortunately, Michael Westen had long since perfected the art of smiling, nodding and answering on automatic thanks to the non-stop chatter of his mother. He would filter any pertinent details out as and when they arose, but honestly right now...

Sleep. Couldn't they just let him have five minutes?

Michael wasn't complaining though – he'd been in worse situations, less sleep, less food and surrounded by people who didn't speak any English. Remembering to conjugate verbs when you've been awake for three days was definitely not something anyone sane enjoyed. And there was the always enjoyable threat of death that just occasionally came with the job, which didn't really help matters. After a while, those sort of things became second nature but strangely enough, they never became _fun._

"Anyway, you'll be working directly with a fella called Axe – one of our finest men in the field but off it? He's been complaining non-stop since we ran out of beer, has a woman in every town, that kind of guy."

"He sounds delightful." The spy murmured sleepily, spinning back and forth slightly on his chair. Actually he thought this 'Axe' – what kind of name was that anyway? - sounded like a pain in ass. He knew the type. They'd screw up in the field and get somebody killed. It was only a matter of time.

There was a knock at the door and the CO stood up quickly. Michael shifted in his seat, getting ready to pretend to like whoever walked through the door, easier said than done when all you want to do is collapse into bed and sleep through the entire briefing. But of course, that would only get people killed and you didn't have that luxury. When you were a spy, you couldn't turn that part of yourself off or people could get hurt. You just had to grin and bear it, and hope that it didn't drag on for too long, as such briefings inevitably do.

"Axe." The CO said bluntly. "Just the person who I wanted to see."

Out of view on the other side of the door 'Axe', whoever he was, whatever he looked like, replied in a voice that completely contradicted his ever-so-slightly menacing name. "You've reconsidered on the beer, sir?"

The hopefulness, the feigned ignorance, it _was_ funny and Michael laughed, despite himself. The CO glared at him. If looks could have killed, all those years of training would have been for nothing. He raised his eyebrows and resumed spinning the chair, thinking maybe this might not be quite as bad as he had it pinned for.

"This is a serious matter," The CO-with-a-stick-up-his-ass snapped "You're an important part of this mission, and we need you to work directly with the CIA on it."

"With all due respect," The man outside intoned the sacred mantra of those about to say something stupid, obnoxious, insubordinate or, at fun times like this, probably all three. "I hate spies. They're a bunch of bitchy little girls."

That was true. Since Michael had started working covert ops he'd come to realise that, far from being real-life James Bonds, they served basically the same purpose as high-school girls at prom – their job was to look all pretty, smile and gossip behind the backs of all their so-called friends. If anything summed up the relationship between the CIA and British Intelligence, that was it. Michael laughed again. This guy didn't seem so bad after all. Once again, the CO-with-a-stick-up-his-ass didn't seem pleased that the spy was undermining him, apparently forgetting the entire purpose of the CIA.

"I couldn't agree more," Michael smiled, as the CO reluctantly ushered 'Axe' in. He was an archetypal SEAL, well-built, muscular, with a chiselled jaw and dark hair that was slicked up in such a way he looked like the sort of man women threw themselves at. Usually those sorts of people could be annoying but the awkward, apologetic look on this man's face was almost comical.

"Sam Axe, Michael Westen." the pompous CO said in clipped tones as he looked cautiously from one too the other.

Sam. It fitted him much better than his surname, that was for sure. The two shook hands, Sam shuffling his feet awkwardly as they did so.

"Sorry about-" he began.

"It's fine." Michael interrupted. "I completely understand where you're coming from. Have you _met _Larry Sizemore?"

At first, the Navy SEAL seemed a little stunned at humour from a spy? Inconceivable! Then he laughed too, sitting down in the chair next to Michael's – which funnily enough didn't seem to spin. The spy also sat down, a little bit pleased he'd been given the spinny chair. God, the things you thought about when you hadn't slept.

"You know Larry?" there was concern in the other man's voice. Concern about Larry? Understandable. While the other spy was excellent in the field, he was also pretty much ruthless, putting the mission before everything else, including other people's lives. Working with him had been fun at first but now...there were questions. It wasn't like Larry was bad, and Michael would happily work with the guy again if the chance arose, he was just a little...questionable. And yes, he was a bitchy little girl. Came with the territory.

"Worked with him a few times. Glad to get a break to be honest." he said, reassuring Sam, who visibly relaxed. Fair enough. Not everybody could get along with Larry, with his happy-go-lucky sometimes abrasive personality. The worry was touching, in an endearing kind of way. Certainly, it wasn't the sort of sentiment you'd get from Larry himself.

"We need to talk about the mission." Stick-up-ass CO began, at which point Michael decided he was done with all the crap for now at least.

"It's five in the morning, I've been on a dark plane all night, there was a lot of turbulence, and I have to deal with my stuff." he indicated his bags, hoping to God the CO would take the bait and he could have a break, just this once, you know, didn't he deserve that much? "If we could discuss this later, that would be perfect."

The CO-with-a-stick-up-his-ass relented "Fine. Be back here by nine." Sam looked a little too excited by this and the CO shot him a look "You too, Axe." The Navy SEAL visibly deflated and saluted, trying to look respectable but ultimately failing, in the way that guys like Sam were prone to when given actual responsibilities.

Realising he had nothing to do for four hours except sleep, Michael suddenly remembered what was in his bag. Part of him wanted to cultivate the asset he had been presented with, but the other part genuinely wanted a friend and so he tapped Sam on the shoulder.

"Fancy a beer?" Again with the faux innocence. The spy opened his bag, pulling out a six-pack of some cheap discount brand, but apparently that was good enough. Sam slapped him on the back and grinned. He had never seen anyone look quite so happy. "Wow Mikey, you are my new favourite person."

"I thought you hated spies."

"I'll make an exception for anyone who comes bearing beer."

And Michael found himself unable to think of this guy as an asset. Perhaps it was a little too soon to jump to conclusions, but it felt like he was more of a friend than anything else, someone he would be able to work with and trust for a long time to come. As a spy, you had to have good instinct about people, you had to know when to fabricated some half-assed cover story and when to be truthful. When to shut people out and when to let them in. Sam seemed like someone who could be relied upon, someone all too rare in situations like this. Meeting someone like that was nigh on impossible in this line of work, that a man like Sam was a real find. Even if he was currently kissing a six-pack of beer.

Today, it seemed, was a good day.


End file.
